Forte
by Milliecake
Summary: After Vadim's demise and d'Artagnan's safe return to the fold, Captain Treville reflects on first encounters, featuring each of his most prominent musketeers


Title: Forte: Aramis

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Musketeers BBC

Category: Angst/Drama

Rating: PG

Spoilers: All episodes, set post Sleight of Hand

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: After Vadim's demise and d'Artagnan's safe return to the fold, Captain Treville reflects on first encounters, featuring each of his most prominent musketeers.

Author's Notes: Forte - the strong section of a blade

OoOoO

_A Gascon farmboy, promising but raw._

That had been Athos' quiet but blunt assessment. It was a fair appraisal of their newest would-be recruit. D'Artagnan had proven to be rash, headstrong, and though eager to please, he was still green. But Treville had needed an unknown, someone who face and name would not raise suspicions, even if it had led to the boy's unfortunate death. There could be no compromise when it came to the King's safety and no higher duty for a soldier of France.

Standing silently above the courtyard, witness to his men as they greeted d'Artagnan and celebrated his return, Treville caught Athos' gaze. It was not accusatory nor damning, but Treville nonetheless felt a momentary pang and looked away.

They had all been wet behind the ears once, all the men who had passed under his command. Young and impetuous and filled with the surety of youth that death would come for all but them. Boys who had long ago found their bloody end on a field of strife, their loyalty and sacrifice for France all that mattered and their bravery for none.

The hardened men who stood below had weathered war, born wounds, the scars not always imprinted in the flesh but they too had once been as those boys.

A quip from Aramis and the men laughed easily and Treville saw a young, fresh-faced soldier drenched in the rain...

OoOoO

An arquebus, fired at close quarters, had penetrated the armour. There was nothing to be done for the doomed man, save prayer that he did not long last the night.

"Boy," Treville ordered as the rain slewed off his helmet to soak the already sodden ground. Damn the weather when the enemy already had the high ground.

A handsome youth with dark eyes turned to stand to attention before his Captain. Treville cast another glance at the dying man who seemed to be resting easier, then nodded to the pallets beyond. "There may be more you can do for those than this one."

The youth nodded dutifully, then looked down. "A prayer to ease his soul on its journey perhaps," he suggested, softly, mouth lifting in a sad smile, before trudging through the ankle deep mud to the aid of their only field surgeon.

Treville watched him go with a weary sigh. There would be many more left to die in the rain before the campaign ended, whether by ball, blade or camp fever. It was best they learnt quicker that soldiering for the King was a hard, harsh duty and that comrades at day break would more than not be corpses by dusk.

Later, when dawn broke, when more men had passed than had been saved and the boom of heavy cannon fire set the valley trembling, Treville once again found the youth in prayer over the dead and dying.

"You have missed your vocation," he informed the younger man, dryly. Beyond, two men were digging ditches that filled with water faster than they could bury their dead and Treville found he could not chastise the young man further. He took no comfort in such losses, necessary though they may be.

The field surgeon had recently sung the youth's praises to the Captain, a quick study in surgery apparently, with a keen eye for detail and a steady hand. Treville needed such skills if it could get those more lightly injured back into battle soonest.

The youth smiled. "I was the youngest of three brothers, destined for Holy Orders and a life dedicated to God. It is a...difficult habit to break," he added, with a deprecating half bow.

"You have traded a gentle life of priesthood for warfare on behalf of the King?" Treville had known many that had turned to soldiering as a way to escape poverty, bad debts, poor affairs. A seasoned veteran used to hearing every excuse, he had reasoned nothing could surprise him.

An impish gleam suddenly accompanied the smile. "What can I say, the gentle life did not turn out quite as amenable as I had anticipated."

Treville raised a curious eyebrow.

"I disagreed with my Bishop on a theological point," the youth elaborated, delicately. At the Captain's stare, he placed his hands together as if in prayer, "I saw the obligation to 'observe perfect and perpetual continence for the sake of the Kingdom of Heaven' more as a...suggestion." The impish gleam was almost wicked, though he did have the good grace to look slightly abashed. "My mother was terribly disappointed."

Treville could not suppress his grin. He had known men to enlist to escape the troubles of women, not as a way to embrace them. The boy was handsome, with an easy, likeable manner and a charming disposition. Treville had not been a soldier for so long that he couldn't foresee many a woman swooning over such, married or not. If he survived the campaign, this one would be trouble for all concerned. "Should I enquire the name of the woman involved in such pious debate?" he asked, astutely.

"A true gentleman should never tell," the youth said, regretfully, with a polite bow, hand over heart. Then, with a playful frown, "Though I will say the Bishop seemed most surprised and will no doubt fail to look upon the magistrate's wife in quite the same way."

Now Treville huffed a small laugh. The boy aimed high in his affairs, one could only hope not too high. Walking away he paused, called back, curious despite himself. "What is your name boy?"

"Aramis," came the friendly answer.

Weeks later, the campaign had ended abruptly and they counted their losses and gains in land and tactical positions more than men. Treville noted the youth, Aramis, had survived and now there was a glint of steel in his eye where once Treville had seen boyish tenderness. War took a toll from all men, yet some tolls it was better to give payment early on and not accrue interest. Aramis had become popular in the regiment, for his easy humour and skillful treatment of their wounds and also his comradely loyalty. He had all the makings of a good soldier, so to all other indiscretions, no matter how flagrant and unrepentant, Treville would choose to turn a blind eye, while Aramis' own wandered unashamedly to whatever willing beauty crossed his path.

It would be in a short few years that the King would create the Musketeers of the Guard with Treville as their Captain, where he could put Aramis' steady hand and keen eye to better use than needle and thread, and watch as his aim with the musket rendered him peerless. Their regiment's campaigns and battlefields and sieges would elevate such King's soldiers to near legendary status amongst the gossiping nobility, tales of their daring exploits and _esprit de corps_ spreading through towns and taverns alike.

Four years would pass before Treville would unwittingly condemn twenty musketeers to slaughter at the hands of the Duke of Savoy, leaving an indelible stain of dishonour and dishonesty that would never pass. That Aramis of all men had survived the attack was small comfort. Small indeed, when Treville knew he would take those same actions again, without hesitation, should his King order it, should France demand it.

It was a narrow, rigid path of duty that Treville had pledged his life to. It was his privilege to look after his loyal men as best he could, his obligation to send them into certain danger, his burden to write the letters to their kin when that danger triumphed over brave hearts and skilled swords.

D'Artagnan had prevailed and emerged relatively unscathed from his endeavours and Treville was grateful for it. Yet as the Captain of the Musketeers of the Guard, he knew it would not be last time the boy faced such peril for as long as he pursued entry into the regiment. Veteran soldiers such as Aramis would understand this and over the years caution had tempered his high spirits, whereas an exuberant Gascon farmboy would still believe himself indestructible. Still, as Treville watched his men below, it occurred to him that not all had come from a regimental background, not all were heedful when it came to risks.

That when it came to a certain wild card musketeer, even the most level headed in the regiment could be encouraged to toss caution to the wind and plunge headlong into danger.

End of Part One


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